


This Serious Moonlight

by Blue_Five



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Collars, M/M, Mates, Omega!Derek, Omega!Jackson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8576299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Five/pseuds/Blue_Five
Summary: Stiles Stilinski has been part of the Guardian Organization for nearly nine years and every day he learns the evil that men do.  Now that evil has been inflicted on someone he knows but never expected to see again -- Jackson Whittemore.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles Stilinski regards the long row of tanks with a look of utter disgust. They hum softly – line after line of clear tanks with various hoses and wires drifting up into central bundles crisscrossing the ceiling, clean and efficient.  Stiles has been part of the Guardian Organization for nearly nine years now and every day he learns new ways that human beings can inflict evil upon one another.  His current extraction team is small but loyal.  They, unlike so many others, have been together since the beginning.  Few other teams last more than a year, if that.  Facing the depravity of mankind leaves scars on a person’s soul and not everyone deals well with it.

“There’s a special place in Hell for the assholes that build these places.”

The voice belongs to one of the reasons Stiles’ team stays when others turn away. Derek Hale, omega and member of the family that founded the Guardian project.  He, better than any of them, knows the nightmare resting in each and every tank Stiles can see because once upon a time, Derek was in a tank just like them.

“Yep and one of these days we’ll send them all there,” Stiles promises his friend.

Stiles claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder and the omega nods. He points ahead of them and together they walk down the catwalk running along the warehouse walls.  They cross a skywalk bisecting the space over the tanks before going down a flight of stairs to the warehouse floor proper.  Derek taps on his tablet.

“Forty-five souls in all,” he murmurs. “All in perfect health.”

Stiles makes a derisive sound. “Physically, maybe.”  He turns to Derek.  “Do we have identifications for any of them?”

Derek walks down the aisle, fingers nimbly dancing to provide him data. He shakes his head.  “Looks like only a few.  Most were unregistered at the time of their … internment.  Unregistered and unclaimed – just the sort not to be missed.”

A dark frown crosses Stiles’ face. “All brought here to be wiped clean for some twisted soul to claim.”

Derek makes a noise of agreement as they stare at the nearest line of tanks. Tall and clear, each tank is filled with a champagne-colored liquid and inside floats an individual – an omega to be precise -- wearing a black body suit that covers them from head to toe, blocking out the world in perfect and total sensory deprivation.  The tubes Stiles observed overhead enter each tank and suit respectively.  Oxygen, waste and nutritional needs are all carefully managed by a bank of computers at one end of the warehouse.  What cannot be seen from the external picture of efficiency is the toll taken on the omega within the tank.  Stiles looks over at Derek and one corner of the omega’s mouth quirks upward.

“You ask me every time, Stiles,” Derek says. He glances sideways at this man who is more like a brother than anything, the crooked smile a little sad.  “I’m fine.”  Derek looks up at a tank.  “I can’t remember much about my time in there, thank God.  But I remember _you_.  And the ones that make it out of this will remember whoever pulls _them_ free.  That’s what I have to focus on.”

“It’s been over 10 years and it’s like it just happened yesterday, Dee. I see your eyes in every omega we pull out of these pits,” Stiles growls.

Derek presses his nose against Stiles’ temple, purring softly to calm the young alpha down. He smiles against the dark, shaggy locks. 

“Every time, Stiles … you’re so damn protective every time,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles lets his breath out slowly, pushing down the instinctive rage that inevitably gets triggered whenever they do an extraction like this. He turns his head and bumps Derek’s jaw gently, a time-honored gesture of affection from an alpha to an omega.  Derek raises his chin, exposing his neck.  The motions calm Stiles and he finds his emotional footing again.  The circumstances that threw them together created a bond between the alpha and omega that runs deeper than friendship.  They love each other as brothers-in-arms and Derek knows Stiles would cheerfully kill for him if the need arose.  The omega knows in his heart of hearts that he would gladly tear out someone’s throat for Stiles without a second thought.  Stiles sighs and pats his friend’s broad chest.

“You know, we are _damn_ lucky that Jordan understands us,” he comments with a grin.  “Otherwise I’d be strung up on the nearest tree branch.”

Derek chuckles. His mate, Jordan Parrish, is a deputy at the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s department.  Stiles’ dad is the sheriff and introduced the alpha to Derek a year or two ago.  Derek runs a finger over his collar and smiles fondly.  Jordan knows the connection the pair have isn’t romantic and Derek would never cheat on him.  Still, it warms Derek to know that Stiles respects the other alpha’s claim on him.

“Nah … he’d just shoot you and bury you in the Preserve,” Derek returns.

“Probably. Ok, let’s get back to work,” Stiles says, his emotions back under control.  “What sort of rehabilitation time are we looking at here?  This set up looks far and beyond what we usually find.”

Derek purses his lips. “Unknown.  You’re right; they’ve got an extensive research database here.  I see a detailed process for decanting the omegas but it reads like a medical textbook and it’s a lot vague on post-emergent mental health issues.”

Stiles sighs. “Just like every other set-up.  Every time.  So you gonna just pick a tank and pry off the lid?”

Derek ignores the sarcasm and shakes his head. “No, we decided to start with one of the omegas we can identify.” He walks to a nearby tank.  “This omega was scheduled to be decanted starting tomorrow.  His records show that he’s been receiving steady doses of a counteragent to drugs used to induce coma.”

Derek gestures to a display on the base of the tank. “By these readings, he’ll be nearly conscious by tomorrow afternoon.  We’ll begin decanting him then and see what happens.”

Stiles growls softly. He presses a palm against the glass side of the tank.  “ _Fuck_ , what a waking nightmare he’s in for …”

The omega in the tank suddenly jerks, his head turning toward Stiles. The alpha removes his hand as Derek moves closer.  The blank, hooded face stays turned toward Stiles which is unnerving.  Derek looks at his iPad in disbelief.

“I don’t believe it … Stiles, say something … anything,” Derek orders.

“What? Why?  What’s going on?”

At the sound of Stiles’ voice, the omega in the tank moves a little. Derek whistles.  “He’s reacting to you.”

“He?” Stiles frowns because Derek’s scent is suddenly tense. “What’s going on, Derek?”

The omega looks up and his expression is almost sheepish. “Well … each tank has a matrix barcode that provides a profile of sorts – height, weight, blood type, that sort of thing.  It also has a picture of each omega.  We’re running the unnamed ones through facial recognition software to see if a match can be found but considering not a one of them was registered, that will take time.  This one … well, you know him, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked. “I _know_ him?  Derek, you better start making sense.”

Derek passes the tablet to Stiles after scanning the bar code on a plaque affixed to the tank’s base. Unit 1138 -- a handsome young man with green/blue eyes and a light blonde hair looks defiantly at whoever had taken the photo.  Stiles mouth drops open and he looks up at the body suspended in the tank.  The body suit blocks out all identity but it emphasizes the musculature of the form within.  According to the profile, Unit 1138 is considered a prize broodmare indeed.  His youth and fecundity couple to make him the wet dream of many an alpha troglodyte.  Stiles knows somehow that whatever the young man’s asking price, it would be met and paid without question.  He hands the tablet back to Derek with trembling fingers.

“Tell me he hasn’t been in that tube for – God, it’s been almost five years!”

Derek offers an uneasy shrug. “I don’t know, Stiles.  There’s no trace of him once he left Beacon Hills for London.  Everyone thought he left because of Lydia.”

“Lydia – oh God, has anyone told her?”

Derek gives Stiles a pained look. “Please.  I’ve only known since Liam pulled his data file last night.  When he cross-referenced the name, he found out that Jackson used to live here.”

Stiles rounds on Derek. “Last night?!?”

“Stiles, I haven’t told _anyone_ on the team.  Liam and I didn’t know Jackson so we can stay objective but you, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, Scott … you all knew him.  I wanted _you_ to see him first so maybe you could figure out how to tell everyone else that Jackson Whittemore is home,” Derek explains.

Jackson Whittemore. Stiles considered the omega the bane of his existence back when they were in high school.  For all that he’s grown into himself now, Stiles was a socially and physically awkward teenager and Jackson … well, Jackson Whittemore has always known how to use his omega attributes to the best of his ability.  Built more like an alpha, the teen had excelled at every sport.  Beacon Hills is progressive so he was able to be on any team he wanted.  Stiles had always envied Jackson ability to appear unbothered by the usual derogatory remarks thrown out by those who believed omegas were little more than breeders and homemakers.

Jackson had been brutally dismissive of Stiles and his then best friend, Scott. It was enough to make an alpha cry how unkind the omega had been back then.  By the time they’d graduated, however, Stiles had met Derek and learned just how cruel the world _really_ could be – he’d lost his awkwardness and grown up in a few short months.  High school, Jackson and all the pathetic drama Stiles had once considered important was quickly forgotten.  Years passed and Jackson moved away – so they believed at the time.  Stiles feels a strong pang of guilt – Jackson was in _Hell_ and no one knew.  The guilt gives way to anger and Stiles turns to Derek.

“His parents – why the hell didn’t his parents ever ask –“

Derek makes a sound that is equal parts disgusted and distressed. “Parents … they were his adopted parents.  Liam tried to track them down last night but apparently they died in a plane crash somewhere over Spain.  They left Beacon Hills not long after Jackson did and never bothered to find out where he was – Jackson’s adopted father, David, had his lawyer take him out of _his_ will but Jackson still has an inheritance due him from his biological parents.  The trust would have gone to him when he turned 25.  It’s just been gathering interest all this time.”

Stiles presses his hand against the tube wall and growls. A shiver races through the body suspended there.  Stiles leans close to the glass.

“We’ll get you out, Jackson. We’ll get you out and we’ll bring you back – I promise you.  We will bring you back.”

The form doesn’t move but it seems to relax, arms and legs drifting slightly in the liquid. Stiles looks at Derek and runs a hand over his face.

“I need … I need to go talk to Lydia. She needs to know.”

Derek gives only the slightest nod of acknowledgement before looking back at the omega hanging in his watery prison. “I’ll notify you when we begin the removal procedure.”

Stiles turns and leaves the warehouse. He hates the way he feels – every instinct in his body is screaming for him to free every omega in that place but he knows he has to wait and let the process happen.  He’s been here too many times with the Organization and rushing things never ends well.  Not for the first time, Stiles wonders what soul-dead individual devised this shop of horrors.

Omegas, by biology, are tactile creatures. They crave physical contact, making them excellent nurturers for infants, the aged or the infirm.  It’s in their very DNA to _care_ about others’ welfare – emotional or physical.  They nest and need to feel safe and secure.  Stiles knows that every person is different – Jackson, obviously, had lacked that gentleness when he was younger.  Derek – Stiles learned through Derek just how savage omegas can be when in defense of loved ones.  So, no, Stiles knows omegas are far more than their biology.  But that biological drive still exists and places like the warehouse exploited it by turning it into the greatest weakness any of the omegas trapped there had ever experienced.

Forty-five omegas hang in sensory deprivation tanks, trapped in a world devoid of touch, sound, sight, taste and –possibly worst of all – scent. A manufactured lime pit sits in a small outbuilding on the property.  Stiles does not doubt that the remains still recognizable as human within that pit were the omegas that had not been strong enough to survive their torturous descent into darkness.  He can only imagine the terrible fear and pain that must have filled the building as their world collapsed in on them.

And to what purpose? To create blank, mindless slates for wealthy alphas to claim and mold into whatever their twisted vision of submission is – to breed or discard young omegas like Jackson as they wished.  After all, the omega would never know the difference because they would never realize they’d been someone else.  At least one could hope … Derek was freed from a torture chamber like this one by Stiles himself.  He barely remembered his life before but when he realized what had been done to him, the omega had suffered.  Oh how Derek had suffered emotionally.  Stiles feels tears sting his eyes at the memories.

Stiles grips his Jeep’s steering wheel tightly. He’s dedicated his life to protect those who cannot protect themselves.  It’s everything that his father taught him to believe about being an alpha and being a good man overall.  Stiles meets his own gaze in the rearview mirror and makes a silent but solemn promise that Jackson will lack for nothing if he survives the decanting.  He might have been a complete and utter asshole to Stiles when they were younger but now … now he is someone that needs Stiles’ help and support.  Stiles growls.

“I’ll bring you back if it’s the last thing I do, Jackson. I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few of my more constant readers might recognize parts of this from an abandoned story I posted under the Kingsman fandom. It's since been taken down. I take author's license to recycle ideas if I wanna. The tanks are a plot I developed in a Suits fandom fic and I'll be following the rules I developed in that 'verse here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your response has made me very happy -- have another chapter.

Stiles watches the tank slowly drain. Derek stands beside him monitoring Jackson’s life signs on his tablet. As the liquid level drops, Jackson slowly comes to rest on the floor of the tank, limp and unmoving; he’s been sedated to ease the transition. Derek nods to his med-techs and the team quickly moves in to remove the body suit.  Stiles can’t help the growl that escapes nor the way his hands curl into fists as sun-starved skin is revealed. The dark blonde hair he remembers is long and plaster against the man’s head. Derek makes a soft _hmm_.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, knowing the question there. “Jackson was kinda vain to say the least. Plus he played lacrosse and was on the swim team – kept him in good shape, didn’t it?” Typically, omegas are slender with less defined musculature. Jackson, however, is as broad through the chest as any alpha.  However long he’s been in the tank has softened him a little but as Jackson is lifted onto a gurney and the suspension gel rinsed off, another tale appears on his skin. Jackson is covered with scars.

Stiles and Derek step forward, each of them cataloging the marks they can see. Derek frowns and lifts one of the arms that has cuts all along the forearm.  He motions to one of the techs to show him Jackson’s scalp and finds more slashes there. Derek whistles softly.

“What?” Stiles demands.

“Unless I miss my guess, he went through a window at one point in his life,” Derek says. “Head down, arms crossed over his face –“ Derek demonstrates. He looks farther down Jackson’s legs and one of the techs points out a scar on the left ankle. “Damn … he fell hard enough to have an open fracture on that ankle. Scarring looks faded so it’s been a while.”  Derek looks at Stiles.  “Your omega might have been vain but he was a tough bastard too.”

Stiles grunts. “He’s not _my_ omega but yeah … I guess he was tougher than I thought.”

Stiles estimation of Jackson goes up a tick. He tries to remember if he ever saw Jackson outside his asshole persona and realizes he can’t – Jackson went from being the bane of Stiles’ existence to not even being on the alpha’s radar. He’s pulled from his musings when sharp sounds of surprise go up from the techs.

Jackson lays on his side and his back, from nape to knee is covered in scars – this time the sort left by a beating with some slender implement. They overlap in places to create thick, ugly marks on the wide back.  Derek is pale and Stiles instinctively places a hand on his friend’s wrist to help ground him. When the omega looks at him, his eyes are wide and haunted.

“Do you know – do you know how _hard_ you have to hit someone to tear them up like this?  To leave a _mark?_ ” Derek asks hoarsely.

“You’re safe, big guy. No one is going to hurt you like this – no one is going to hurt _him_ like this ever again.  That’s why we’re here – no one gets to hurt these people anymore,” Stiles says firmly.

Derek looks at the ceiling, blinking back tears. It takes a minute but he finally gets himself under control and clears his throat shakily.  “Thanks, Stiles.”

Stiles releases Derek’s arm. He knows Derek hates to lose control in public but this situation – it’s hard enough when they find one or two omegas in distress. Forty-five?  It’s too much for anyone to bear and Stiles can only imagine what nightmares this is pulling up for his brother.

Quickly going back to work, Derek confers with his medical team that all initial tests show Jackson to be in good condition beyond the obvious old injuries. They won’t know more until a full-body scan can be performed. Derek nods and motions Stiles back.

“Alright – strap him down and bring him up,” he orders.

The techs restrain Jackson’s biceps and legs to the gurney before injecting him with a drug to counteract the sedative. For a few minutes, nothing happens beyond a slight twitching of the omega’s muscles. Then everything happens at once.

Jackson’s blue-green eyes open and he slams up with his head, breaking the nose of the nearest tech. Jerking his arms out from the single strap, the omega then grabs two of the techs and cracks their heads together.  He throws them toward the group of techs moving toward him and pulls his legs free swings off the gurney.  Stiles and Derek watch in shock as he reaches up and pulls out the oxygen tube that had been down his throat.  Jackson yells, his entire body vibrating with rage.  Stiles jerks Derek down as the gurney goes flying overhead to crash somewhere behind them.  Jackson uses the delay it causes to run.

“Where does he thinks he’s --?”

Derek’s question fades as Jackson runs into the rest of Stiles’ team coming from the opposite direction at the noise. He sees them move into flanking positions, intending to block Jackson’s escape but in a move worthy of the extraction team’s training, Jackson shifts his direction upward. He leaps up, pulling himself onto the stairs just ahead of Boyd’s desperate jump. He heads to the catwalk and sprints until he finds one of the skylights.  Jackson quickly unlocks it and crawls out onto the roof.

Stiles watches the entire thing with his mouth open in shock but he suddenly realizes where Jackson’s heading. He briskly jogs to a side door and hugs the building wall as he moves toward the corner he knows the omega is going to round shortly.  Jackson doesn’t disappoint as he races around the building, still going full-speed. Stiles hates to treat the newly released man so brutally but he has to put an end to the mad dash.  Stiles steps into Jackson’s path and when they connect, he grips the omega and pins him with his greater alpha strength. Later, Stiles would think it was like trying to hold a mad cat.  Jackson bucks and yells in a desperate effort to break free.  His eyes are wide, dilated and it’s obvious that Jackson has learned if he expects to escape, he cannot hold back anything – he must give everything over to the effort.

Stiles leans in, trying to speak softly and gentle the omega as he’s done a hundred times before during extractions. He sees stars a minute later when Jackson’s head slams up into his. Temper shredded, Stiles flips Jackson over and clamps his hand down hard on the omega’s nape.

“ _Enough!_ ”

Jackson falls still beneath him with a soft whimper that cuts Stiles deep. The handhold triggers a pressure point located on all omegas – when held this way by an alpha, their bodies simply go limp. Until the alpha releases them, they are trapped.  Stiles exhales slowly.

“I’m sorry, Jackson … I’m so sorry but you’re going to hurt yourself … well, or more of us if you keep running. You’re safe, Jackson. I swear you’re safe.”

Stiles releases his grip, praying he won’t have to chase the other man down again but it appears Jackson is done. Whatever burst of energy he found to take him this far has fled and he curls into a tight, trembling ball.  Stiles pulls his hand off and the young man curls into a tight trembling ball, all fight gone.  Stiles gently brushes the long hair back from a face he barely recognizes.

 _“_ _Fuck you, alpha._ _”_ Comes the soft whisper.

Stiles sighs.

* * *

Derek looks up as Stiles joins him in the medical facility they’ve set up to house the forty-five omegas taken from the warehouse. Together, they look through a large observation window for a ward holding five of the male omegas retrieved over the last month and a half.  Jackson is one of the five.

Reactions to being decanted vary between omegas but inevitably, they all fall into the state Stiles sees before him now – silent, unmoving and mentally ‘checked out’. Every doctor that’s worked with the Organization has held the same opinion – it’s a defense reaction to deal with extreme conditions. Blank emptiness versus overwhelming input.  And to help reduce the stress – mentally and physically, each omega in the various wards is treated the same way. Straps are placed over beds, holding the omegas suspended in imitation of their time in the tanks.  No one knows exactly why but the sensation of weightlessness seems to reduce anxiety in the recovering omegas.

Stiles stares at Jackson’s form silently. When he’d picked up Jackson to take him back to the med-techs, the omega had curled against him and mewled once before falling silent. He’d watched as the fierce blue-green eyes had gone distant and blank. For some reason Stiles doesn't want to examine very closely, it left him feeling bereft to see the fire driving Jackson’s desperate flight fade into smoke and ashes. It's why he is back now.

“Dee, I want to see Jackson,” Stiles murmurs.

Derek cocks an eyebrow. “He won't even know you're there, Stiles.”

“Please?”

Derek regards his brother with a frown. He knows Stiles better than anyone and this isn’t like him. Extractions are hard and Stiles is as compassionate as any alpha can be but he never gets attached.  He never lets himself really _connect_ with the omegas he pulls out of their personal hellholes.  He wonders why Jackson has managed to break past those walls.  Still, he can't deny Stiles much if anything.

Derek looks around and nods. He swipes his access card and they enter the ward.  They walk over to the straps holding Jackson aloft. 

“Talk soft and don’t touch him,” Derek warns. “Any confusing sensory input can make things so much worse right now, ok?”

Stiles nods and moves to stand near Jackson’s head. Still naked, the omega lies in his hammock of soft straps, eyes closed, breathing even.  If he didn’t know better, he’d think Jackson was just asleep. A faint tremor runs through the body before him and Stiles knows Jackson is aware of his presence.  He sees the nose flare slightly and realizes the omega knows exactly who stands beside him.

“Who did this to you, little omega?” Stiles wonders softly, the endearment falling off his tongue without thought.

The blue-green eyes suddenly pop open, startling Stiles. They focus for just a moment but when they begin to haze, Stiles does the unthinkable and lays his hand on Jackson’s arm. The heart monitor beside the bed kicks up and Derek moves to grab Stiles away before he traumatizes the entire ward. 

“You almost got away, Jackson,” Stiles murmurs. “Don’t give up now. Keep fighting.”

Derek pulls him back but as Stiles backs away from the bed, he realizes Jackson’s gaze is still on him. The eyes are narrowly watching him before the omega nods ever so slightly.  Then Jackson relaxes back into his harness and the monitor returns to its previous steady, monotonous rhythm.  Stiles is still smiling like a dope when Derek jerks him out the door.


End file.
